


Holding Back the Years

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Aging, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-20
Updated: 2006-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal





	Holding Back the Years

Pete wakes up with the sun in his eyes and his mood set to Maybe Bitchy. It mostly has to do with him waking up alone in the bed, so he curses a little, and then curses a lot when he finds that Patrick has swiped the bunny slippers. He keeps telling Patrick that those bunny slippers are _his_ , he bought them for _himself_ , but Patrick, being a Taurus and therefore Does Not Listen, is probably lying in the sofa down in the TV room with the coverlet thrown over his legs, the bunny slippers tucked cozily beside him.

Pete struggles out of bed and continues to curse, because his knees, man. His _knees_. And his motherfucking hip. Some days he feels like twenty again, when all systems were fucking Go, all wiring in place and firing fine, but mostly, he feels like the crumbly old man he is, catching sight of long grey strands in his hair as he passes the full-length mirror, and is that another fucking laugh-line that didn't go away? Christ. He needs to stop laughing.

Pete pulls open the t-shirt drawer and pokes through with disinterest; at the bottom he finds a shirt so faded that he has to pull it out and take a good look. It used to be a very dark colour, like black or dark-green, but now it's like washed-out dark grey. There are some words printed on the back and there are a couple of letters missing, so now it says: STUMP C UB P ESIDEN, but the sentiments are the same. There used to be a "CO" written in sharpie right before the word "PRESIDENT" and Pete lets out a huff, because _he's_ the _President_ of the Stump Club, nevermind that he didn't come up with the idea first.

He brushes his teeth furiously, and washes his face, and then after a moment's consideration, drags on the shirt, which is a little tight around his belly, and then puts on some jeans.

He finds Patrick right where he thought he should be, or right where he last left him, he doesn't remember which. Patrick is flipping idly through the channels, and he gapes at Pete in the too-tight shirt.

"Okay." That's all he says, because he folds his lips in and tries not to laugh. Pete hasn't put on too much weight, but he still did, because it's been maybe a thousand years since he's run some laps or kicked a soccer-ball or even flew off-stage into a crowd, so he has a paunch. When he was younger he might have lost sleep over it; now, its like _fuckit_. He thinks about getting a t-shirt with that something like that on it: FUCKIT...maybe he can iron it on his STUMP CLUB shirt.

"Your leg still hurt a lot?" he says roughly, stepping into the bunny slippers. Patrick said couple of days ago that the calf of his left leg felt swollen and hot, and they hadn't been able to go for their morning walk for these past two days; Patrick tilts his head around Pete, who is blocking his view of the television, and shakes his head.

"It hurts a little. I feel really tired, though."

Pete takes a look at him, the drawn face that used to be plump and rosy when they were younger, the light hair shorn short around a bald spot; he sees the years pressing in on Patrick, even though he isn't nowhere near as grey as Pete; the clock in the kitchen ticks too loudly, and Pete wants to stick his finger on the second-hand so that it stops moving and making that horrible, horrible noise.

"You want something to eat?" Pete says, halfway to the kitchen and he turns around when Patrick makes a sharp cry instead of answering. He takes a few jerky, uncoordinated steps back to the sofa and Patrick is pressing a trembling hand to his chest and breathing too hard; before Pete can reach his side, his eyes roll up in his head and he slumps back against the arm of the sofa.

*

Pete calls one woman at the hospital a _fucking cunt_ when she keeps walking past Patrick's room with high-heeled boots on, the click-click-click of her shoes resonating through the hallway and disturbing Patrick. He nearly hits her when she says something about _fuck off, old man_ , and an orderly has to catch at his arm and lead him back to Patrick's room.

"Who the fuck wears heels in a hospital, man?" He rants at a nurse, who said her name was Bette, and she clicks her tongue at him and writes something on Patrick's chart.

The doctors say it wasn't a heart attack, because Patrick's heart is as strong as a train, even though it looks elongated in their fancy scans. It was an embolism, a blood-clot that was too big traveling up his veins and blocking the blood flow to his heart. It had stopped, twice, and the doctors tell Pete that his Amazing CPR Skills were what had saved Patrick's life. Pete doesn't tell them he wasn't performing resuscitation as much as he was trying to kick Patrick's ass for attempting to skip out on him too early in the game. Patrick will have to be on some medication called Warfarin for the rest of his life, because for some reason his blood has thickened too much, and it needs to stay thin to flow properly. Pete wonders if he can pull a Vlad and drain someone of their perfect blood so that he can give it to Patrick.

Patrick stirs and wakes up, his eyes focusing on Pete almost immediately. Pete rubs at the peppered stubble on his face, and glares at Patrick.

"Fuck. You didn't die...now I'm going to have to get your money another way."

 _I'm so glad you're still here with me_ , Pete thinks, and sighs.

Patrick groans. "Pete, why didn't you change your fucking shirt? That shirt is too small for you."

His voice, although scratchy and low, is still strong and melodious; Pete wants to tell him that Bette Brinkerhoff is his nurse, and Dr. Alexi Ramcharan is the doctor, just so he can hear Patrick sound the syllables out slowly, to get the names right, like he always does. Patrick is looking at him with a mixture of exasperated affection and pain, the strong pale fingers clutching at the white bedsheets; Pete wonders when was the last time he said _I love you_.

"You scared me. I had to get you here, I wasn't really thinking about my damned _ensemble_ ," he grumbles instead, tugging his STUMP CLUB shirt around his stomach, remembering how delighted he was to get it from some girls who had rolled their eyes at him when he had squealed over it. Patrick closes his eyes and smiles a little, and Pete hears the hand on his watch, the second hand making that horrible, horrible sound, and he takes it off and pulls out the pin so it stops.


End file.
